


but i guess i'm too attached to my own pride to let you know

by sunflower_8, ToxicPineapple



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Both of these guys are adults btw, Dude I don't know how to tag, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, No Sex, Past Saimota, Referenced Alcohol Use, Reminiscing, This isn't explicit, Trans Oma Kokichi, alcohol use, breaking up, injuries, mature themes, past kaimaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicPineapple/pseuds/ToxicPineapple
Summary: today, though, momota lies awake, watching the red numbers blink on his digital clock, sneaking glances over at ouma, who has been lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling for the past half an hour now. he looks like a renaissance painting, or something, his dark hair fanning his head on the pillow, dark violet eyes half lidded, lips pursed in thought. momota wonders what he’s thinking. more than that, he wants to know what ouma is thinking, which isn’t so uncommon, but it’s one thing to want, it’s another thing to desire, and nowadays momota is finding more and more that he can’t tell the difference.in the quiet, between pondering topics that could be running through his partner’s head, momota thinks, how did we get here?and then ouma says, “this is the last time we’ll play this game.”(or, momota and ouma are friends with benefits, and ouma declares that this is the end.)
Relationships: Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	but i guess i'm too attached to my own pride to let you know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jimcloud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimcloud/gifts).



> that all these words meant nothing  
> and i've always been this heartless  
> and we're just having sex  
> no, i would never call it love
> 
> \- sex, eden

momota has always done poorly in silence.

most of the time it wouldn’t be a problem. in the past when he and ouma have finished cleaning up, he’s been tired enough to fall asleep in moments, and after that, well, whether or not his bed is empty when he wakes up has been a concern left to future momota. it’s always a gamble, with ouma, which has usually left momota wishing for it to be anybody else, that he’s seeing in this way.

today, though, momota lies awake, watching the red numbers blink on his digital clock, sneaking glances over at ouma, who has been lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling for the past half an hour now. he looks like a renaissance painting, or something, his dark hair fanning his head on the pillow, dark violet eyes half lidded, lips pursed in thought. momota wonders what he’s thinking. more than that, he wants to  _ know  _ what ouma is thinking, which isn’t so uncommon, but it’s one thing to want, it’s another thing to desire, and nowadays momota is finding more and more that he can’t tell the difference.

in the quiet, between pondering topics that could be running through his partner’s head, momota thinks,  _ how did we get here? _

and then ouma says, “this is the last time we’ll play this game.”

it takes a moment for the words to settle, and momota finds his stomach churning, slightly, before he even processes what they mean. he doesn’t question the use of the word  _ game;  _ maybe he would’ve, once, thrown the blankets off and demanded why ouma would call it-- this, them, whatever this had become-- a game, but he’s always known that it’s a game. always known it wouldn’t last forever.

… but.   
  
“what do you mean?” momota doesn’t move yet, but he hears something that he doesn’t like in his voice, something thick, emotional, foreign. not so foreign that ouma wouldn’t recognise it, but foreign in the sense that momota rarely lets himself sound this way. he couldn’t say why he does so now.

“i mean we’re done, momota-chan. this is the last time i’m sleeping with you.” if it was anyone else, he would have averted his eyes, saying that so bluntly, but it’s not, it’s ouma, and when he speaks he makes direct eye contact with momota, a little smile appearing on his face. “it’s over.”

momota has been broken up with before. he’s broken up with people before. when he dated harumaki in high school, he broke up with her, because he was gay, and when he dated shuichi in college, shuichi broke up with him, because… well, even now momota can’t quite pinpoint the reason for it, but he’s not like, upset about it anymore. long in the past. he has his eyes on other people now, anyway.   
  
anyway.

he tried to react with graciousness, with shuichi, even though it felt like his heart was trying to tear itself from his chest. that’s the proper thing to do, after all; it’s not like shuichi was exactly  _ wronging  _ him by leaving him. he didn’t owe momota his love, or his presence, no matter how much of it he had given in the past. it had become easier over time to act normal around shuichi, because he cared about him so much, and he knew that eventually things would be okay. they would be okay.   
  
right now, though, right now, momota doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel. or what he’s supposed to say.

what ends up coming out is, “why?” and momota thinks it’s an acceptable reaction, an understandable one, even if ouma’s next move is to laugh, harsh and derisive, his eyes closing as he does so. momota doesn’t feel hurt by this response, because a part of him had expected it. he’s always been so emotional, so raw and fragile in the most humiliating of ways, and ouma has always seemed to find it at least a little bit funny. just the slightest bit. (except when he hasn’t, but momota doesn’t want to think about that now, not right now.)

“momota-chan is silly if he thinks i need to answer that,” ouma says, and he grins, all shark-like, sitting himself up so that the blanket slips off his chest. he’s half dressed by now, just lacking a shirt, but he seems to ignore that for the moment, sliding off the bed to find his hair tie. “this was never a permanent arrangement, y’know? no commitment. it was bound to happen eventually. one of us was gonna find someone better.”

it feels like a sucker punch, even though momota knows he’s right. “so you found someone else?” he doesn’t know why he sounds so accusational. they were never together. they were always just in it for what it’s been, the sex, the company. a way to pass the time.

ouma looks at him for a moment, strangely impassive. “no,” he says, his voice oddly sullen. and then a smile springs back up on his features. “but it would be funny if i had, right? no, no, the truth is, momota-chan, and you should’ve known this was coming,” he locates his hair tie, holding it between his lips as he gathers his hair back, “i got bored. so i’m cutting and running.”

yeah. yeah, okay. he got bored. he got  _ bored.  _ he always gets bored, this is nothing new-- this has only ever been a game to him, to both of them, just a way to pass the time, so really, momota shouldn’t be upset, there’s no reason to be upset, so--

so he’s not.

instead of being upset, momota watches ouma tie back his hair, his eyes closing as he goes through the action. momota has watched ouma do this what feels like dozens of times, even before they started seeing each other like this, even before they started to get along (if this is what getting along truly means). he tied his hair back every so often in high school, especially before gym, and sometimes in the locker room momota would look over and catch him doing it, and ouma would grin that cheshire cat smile, and momota would scoff and turn his eyes away.

there was attraction back then, sure there was, but momota hated ouma too much to recognise it, hated himself even more than that. he hates himself now, too, because he’s just lying here and watching ouma tie back his hair, and in a second he’ll be watching ouma walk away, gone, for good, like he did back then.

not like momota cared, really, back then. not very much, at least, not enough to lift a finger. now, momota keeps his hands still because it feels like there’s something cold caging his heart, but back then he shoved them into his pockets, reeling in shock from the conversation they had just had.

graduation day was the last day they saw each other, the last day of high school where attendance was really mandatory. momota attended all the rest of the classes after that, because he had friends who he didn’t want to let go of yet, but ouma didn’t. it didn’t come off as much of a surprise to momota, in part because ouma didn’t seem like the type to put more effort into maintaining a relationship than he had to, but also because, at graduation, when momota had asked, ouma replied, “no, of course not.”

momota disguised his annoyed sound with a cough into his fist, figuring he should at least try to be polite. “how come?” he asked, and he felt that some of his irritation slipped into his voice regardless, but that couldn’t have been helped. “don’t you have friends you want to see?”

giggling, ouma had said, “once again, of course not. momota-chan is real silly if he thinks there’s anyone at this school who doesn’t hate me.” he laughed. “but that’s a lie, of course. sure, i have friends, but i’d have to have a whole lot more of them to justify getting up early after i’ve graduated. besides, coming to school means i’d have to see momota-chan more, and that’s just a no-go.”

“you’re a brat,” momota retorted, intelligently, and ouma giggled again, prompting momota to sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the fabric of his graduating cap. “look, just-- be quiet for a minute, a’ight? and just listen. can you do that?”

“no,” ouma said.

“ouma--”

“i’m kidding! geez, momota-chan is so easy to rile up, it would be cute if he weren’t so ugly,” ouma tittered. “okaayyy, what is it? you have thirty seconds of my attention and no more.”

momota almost sputtered, about to retort that he wasn’t going to cater to ouma’s whims, but he decided that that would make a pretty unpleasant final interaction, so instead he sighed a second time, lowering his gaze. “listen, if you’re not going to school next week, then this is the last time we’re ever gonna see each other. and man, i don’t like you,” he pressed his lips together. “i hate that you’re always treatin’ everything like a game, and everyone else like they’re beneath you.”

“what, like momota-chan doesn’t do the same thing?” ouma tilted his head to the side.

opting to ignore that, momota plowed on. “but i hope you have a good life, y’know? and i hope you,” he gestured, “i hope you work out whatever it is that makes you wanna treat everyone the way you do.”

it was hard to tell whether or not ouma expected him to say that. it was hard to tell what ouma was thinking as a  _ rule,  _ and momota  _ hated  _ that, not knowing where he was standing, not knowing how the conversation was affecting both parties, but… it wasn’t worth thinking about, not when he wasn’t ever going to see ouma again. “well, that’s very sweet, momota-chan!” ouma beamed. “make sure you don’t get your big head caught on the door on the way out of the building, nishishi!”

“you little shit!” momota burst out, incredulous, feeling a tickle of anger in the pit of his stomach. “i’m trying to make nice with you right now, and you’re--”

“i’m kidding!” ouma interrupted. “it was a joke, silly, geez! not that you’d know one of those if it hit you in the face.” he sighed, then smiled, tilting his head to the side. “but really, be careful with the big body parts, especially that heart of yours.” ouma reached out, tapping momota lightly in the center of his chest with his index finger. momota blinked. “if momota-chan was juuuust a little nicer, i might’ve taken advantage of it, y’know? and then where would you be?”

momota didn’t know what to say to that, his throat drying, and ouma didn’t give him a chance to formulate a reply, because he was already removing the graduation cap off his own head, placing it in momota’s arms and turning to walk away. momota could have stopped him, asked what he meant by that-- asked if he really thought that momota had a big heart-- but instead, he let him go, his mouth slightly ajar, his heart pounding something ugly in his chest.

it didn’t matter. he wasn’t going to see him again.

except that momota  _ did  _ see him again, years later, after graduating university and landing an office job, he walked into the office one morning and his boss was standing there next to the guy and she located momota in the room and asked him to help the new worker adjust, and momota was already agreeing when he met dark violet eyes, and it was--   
  
he was, different. he was different, because his hair was longer and his face was thinner, and when he spoke his voice was lower (a side effect, momota later learned, of being on testosterone therapy for longer), and when he smiled his expression was just a little bit more serious, a little more adult. it was such a jarring shift, the one in his smile, that momota almost didn’t recognise him.

but when he spoke, when momota and ouma were alone and when he  _ spoke,  _ he was exactly the same as he had been, all those years ago, when momota was watching him walk away, saying nothing.

like he is now, saying nothing, watching the muscles in ouma’s back shift as he reaches down to pick up his undershirt. he has a lot of layers to put back on, a lot of accessories to return to his person in order to get out of here looking like he did when he left, and he’s always so very careful to make himself up perfectly, so very precise. (momota has the exact order in which he dresses himself committed to memory.)

momota has until he’s finished dressing himself to stop him. and there’s a moment where momota isn’t sure that he’s even going to, but then he opens his mouth, and out comes, “what now?”

“whaddya mean?” ouma tosses a careless look over his shoulder, an innocent smile curving his lips. momota almost wishes for the toothy one, and then smothers the thought. “we stop fucking each other, duh.”

“well-- obviously,” and it’s a testament to how long they’ve been seeing each other, that momota’s heart doesn’t so much as skip a beat when ouma says that so casually, an annoyed huff of air leaving him instead. “but… what about work? what about the bar? are we just supposed to… see each other? and act normal?”   
  
“how else would we act, momota-chan?” ouma raises his eyebrows, stopping in looking for his second shirt to put his hands on his hip, both eyebrows raising incredulously. “are we supposed to be all sad and on edge like lovers who broke up? we  _ aren’t  _ lovers, momota-chan, there aren’t any feelings involved in this at all. it’s a little extra enrichment, and now we’re just gonna take it out. maybe you’re gonna feel weird without having a permanent booty call, but it’s not like it’ll be painful seeing me, right?”

and…

the way ouma’s voice sounds, it’s almost as if he knows. that momota broke their agreement. that one day momota turned to look at him and something was different, something had changed, only he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, couldn’t quite point out what exactly the difference was, until ouma turned to look back at him, and he smiled, and--

and momota  _ knew.  _ knew he’d caught feelings. knew he’d done the one thing they agreed not to do.

… they hadn’t planned it, was the thing. being friends with benefits. in order for  _ that  _ to happen, they would have had to be friends first. but momota’s friend amami worked (still works) as a bartender near the office, and momota was there alone after a day of work that was much too long, and it turned out that ouma knew amami too, and then they were sitting together at the bar.

ouma didn’t challenge him to drink or anything, but momota still drank a little bit more than he would’ve ordinarily. it was like high school again, ouma looking at him smugly, momota pushing his limits for no reason other than he felt challenged, he felt like he had something to prove. he’d always had something to prove, when it came to ouma, the man was so damn  _ infuriating,  _ and it didn’t help that ouma was matching him shot for shot, and then the room was fuzzy and momota couldn’t quite think straight and ouma’s smirk, wobbly as it was with inebriation, was suddenly… really, really hot.

momota isn’t a blackout drunk. he never has been, which is why, when he woke up the next morning, tangled in sheets that didn’t smell like his own, he remembered every moment of the night before, kissing, ouma laughing at him when he asked about his top scars, everything… after that, too. he had a hangover that could’ve killed a horse and there was bitter regret crawling in his throat, threatening to choke him, but it was ouma, whose lazy smile and teasing words upon waking up, who really sent momota over the edge.

and yet, even with all of that, when ouma shot him a text a couple days later asking if he wanted to discuss potentially being friends with benefits… momota agreed. and since then, a couple times a month for the past year and a half, they’ve… done this. like it hasn’t mattered, like sex is just something that you do with someone you sort of hate, only there came a point (sometime in december, six months after they started seeing each other, momota had always loved december) when momota realised he actually  _ didn’t  _ hate ouma anymore, he… didn’t know what to call his feelings, but god he didn’t hate him, he didn’t hate him even a little bit.

momota wishes that he could hate him now, though, as he turns back around to continue getting dressed. it would be easier to hate him for leaving, to be bitter and resentful, than it is to feel the way that he does now, something cold and ugly churning in his stomach, a lump threatening to raise in his throat.

he is  _ not  _ going to cry. he won’t. he’s cried in front of ouma before, just once, a couple months ago on october twenty ninth, and it was… momota wouldn’t say it was bad, but they didn’t end up having sex that day, probably because momota was crying (and partly because having sex on the death anniversary of one’s parents is just, an inherently weird way to pass the time, even if it is a good way to forget). ouma spent the night, though, and he let momota hold him, which was weird, but it wasn’t the last time that they did that, just slept, momota’s arms hooked around ouma’s waist from behind, like a couple, or something, which they aren’t, but.

in those moments, it’s… almost easy, to wish that they could be.

except ouma is leaving, now, so it’s… not going to happen. which makes momota ache a little. he had hoped… well, he doesn’t know  _ what  _ he had hoped, but there was a part of him that had thought that someday, if he gathered the courage, he could ask, if ouma wanted him like that, because maybe…

maybe it could work. maybe it could have worked.  _ they  _ could have worked. because momota doesn’t have anybody else, not really; shuichi hasn’t needed him in years, and he hasn’t talked to harumaki in months, and momota never had anybody else before he had them, not  _ like  _ he had them, and he doesn’t even really have ouma now, it’s just, easy to think so, with the way things have been from time to time. he knows that ouma doesn’t have anybody else, either, because people like ouma don’t  _ have  _ people, and that isn’t the sort of thing that momota would just say, or even think about another person-- especially not ouma-- but it’s…

ouma said so himself, once, about a month ago. they weren’t due to meet for another couple of days, but ouma showed up at his door anyway, dark red blood dripping down from his hairline, and he grinned and then collapsed, and momota caught him around the waist and thought,  _ fuck. _

he would have taken him to the hospital, but ouma asked that he not, because that was too vulnerable, maybe, he didn’t really specify. momota listened, for some reason, and went to the bathroom for saline and bandages, because he didn’t get into fights much anymore, didn’t live with his grandfather, but he still  _ had  _ the fist aid kit, was still ready in case something like this was to happen. he didn’t know why he was ready.

there was something intimate about it, in a much different way than they were usually intimate, delicately cleaning ouma’s wound with a towel and then wrapping it with bandages. ouma didn’t look at him the entire time, which was strange, because he had never been particularly conservative when it came to making eye contact. momota didn’t speak until he’d tended the wound and washed his hands, tossing the rag into the laundry machine and then sitting down next to ouma on the couch.

even then, he didn’t say anything. not until he worked up the courage to.

“why’d you come here?” momota leaned back against the couch, looking over at ouma, his brow furrowed with concern. “i don’t mind taking care of ya,” and  _ what  _ a thing that was to say, to ouma kokichi of all people, but he’d taken care of ouma in more ways than that before, so it was hardly a confession, “but i didn’t think i’d be your first choice in an emergency.”

“oh, you’re not,” ouma giggled. “really, the only reason i came to you at  _ all  _ was because all my minions were busy. momota-chan isn’t even my third choice, i just had to resort to suuuper desperate measures. i can’t wait to leave here, actually, i hate your face so much.” he paused. “that’s a lie, though, you have a pretty face.” he tilted his head. “and you’re only my first choice ‘cause i don’t have any other ones.”

momota blinked, and softened. “ouma,” he uttered, feeling his heart squeeze a little.

“don’t patronise me,” ouma scoffed. “it isn’t like momota-chan has anybody either.”

“i have people!” momota protested, but when he thought about it, in the silenced that followed, he found… no, he didn’t. he didn’t have people. he didn’t have anyone, not unless you counted ouma, and well, momota was working  _ really  _ hard to try and forget how nice it felt when ouma held him on october twenty ninth. “or… i used to.”

“that’s just the thing, isn’t it?” ouma looked over at him. “you used to have people. sort of. except that you would’a rather taken a bullet than let them love you.” he smiled. “momota-chan is the kind who gives. ‘cause taking makes him uncomfortable.”

_ not when you’re the one giving,  _ momota thought, and then he pushed the thought to the side. “i don’t want to talk about that stuff right now, you probably have a concussion,” he grumbled, and he sat himself up. “have you eaten dinner yet?”

“i managed to get some mcnuggets between getting vibe checked and coming here,” ouma said.

“i’ll warm up some of the food i made earlier,” momota replied, walking into the kitchen. “you can stay the night, i don’t care. it’s not like you haven’t before.”

“we’re not fucking this time, though!” ouma pointed out.

_ yeah, well,  _ momota thought,  _ it’s not like we haven’t done  _ that  _ before, either. _

annoyance aside, when it was time for bed, momota found his favourite, fluffiest blanket and he wrapped it around himself and ouma, then tucked an arm around ouma’s shoulders, leaning his head back against the couch cushions. he half expected ouma to tell him to leave, but he didn’t. ouma just cuddled into him, slightly, and so momota pulled him closer, yawning. he chanced one last peek at the other man before he dozed off, took in the sight of his peaceful expression, and thought,  _ i could probably get used to this. _

it wasn’t until a lot later, though, that momota realised what that meant.

and ouma has finished dressing himself, right down to that scarf of his, the one he always wears around his neck. he walks over to the bedside, grinning, all toothy and wide, and leans forward to kiss momota on the forehead. that smile has faltered a little, just a little, when he pulls away, but he pulls it back up in moments.

he’s within momota’s reach, right now. this might be the last time he ever will be.

“don’t feel bad, momota-chan,” ouma smiles. “i was gonna get bored eventually. and you were pretty fun for a while, y’know.”

then he turns around, and he starts to walk away, and momota is going to let him, just like last time ouma left, because that’s what he’s always done, is let ouma leave-- no way could he admit to breaking the rules, to caring about him, to  _ loving  _ him, because that was never something that he was allowed to do, that he was allowed to have. even if he thinks sometimes it might be possible, clearly it couldn’t. even if ouma’s reason isn’t really that he’s bored, he clearly  _ has  _ a reason to leave, and any reason is a valid one, momota should just let him go. that’s what he’s going to do, he’s going to let him go.

he’s going to let him go.

“wait,” momota says, and he springs forward, grabs ouma’s wrist, turns him around. ouma’s eyes are wide. “wait, just-- fine, it’s over, we’re not doing this anymore, but--”

_ please don’t let it end like this, i don’t want it to end like this, i don’t want it to end at all. _

“one more night?”

“we already fucked, momota-chan,” ouma scoffs. “what more do you want from tonight?”

“no, i meant,” momota clears his throat, averts his gaze, then looks back at ouma. “i mean, stay, one more night. with me. please.” ouma blinks at him. “kokichi.”

maybe that’s what does it, the use of his given name, because ouma’s eyes go a little wider, but he nods, and when momota moves back, he kicks off his shoes and unties his scarf and pulls off all his shirts, climbing into bed next to momota, turning his back so that momota can spoon him.

and maybe this is the last night, maybe ouma is going to leave tomorrow morning and he’s never going to come back, and momota will see him at work and at the bar but it won’t be the same, and then eventually one of them will quit and move and then he’ll really, really be gone, and then they’ll both have nobody, because ouma got  _ bored,  _ because momota was too scared to admit that he’d broken the rules, to ask for something more, but for now--

for  _ now. _

momota just holds ouma, a little tighter than he would usually, and buries his face in the man’s hair. he smells like sugar, and peach conditioner, and a little bit like momota’s cologne. so, so familiar, like something momota has had a million times, and yet, he wants…

he wants more. he wants so much more.

he could never say that, though, because momota is a coward. a coward who, when the morning comes, is going to let ouma slip away through his fingertips, and never come back.

until then, though, momota swallows down the lump in his throat, and pretends like the man in his arms will be there forever, and it’s such a good fantasy that it lulls him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a collab i wrote with sun!!! hello sun :D i promised i'd spill love all over you when i posted this so here i am. sun is so talented!!! and funny and sweet and positive and i know she's the cowriter not the person i'm gifting this to but i've written jim so many gift fics by now you should KNOW the drill already really
> 
> anyway!! there's going to be a section of this from kokichi's point of view written by the lovely and talented sunflower underscore eight, so look forward to that someday!! for now just. just take this. i've been sitting on it for weeks just. so many words of oumota
> 
> oh how i've fallen
> 
> anyway. hehe. this is much different from the stuff i usually write, clearly, more of a sun vibe, but yeah :3c hope you enjoyed


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